Mr Sun Poem by (TPAC) Alexander Coppedge

The sun drops beams, caused by downed rays, touch sways that are aimed at the dark ground, destroy displays; set as their visuals; pathway.

A light, a dawn's hark, is to us, a morning, puts on its bark, attacks cave's night, peels dark off the wall, melts hot away; dew in a park.

These rays glow, hit wood home, warm up the heat, bring a sting, flick sparks through mirror glass, show seen ping, a crystal shines; sing lower: shade.

These fiery slices, about, do a search, cuts dices put in, at my bed's edge paces from, snores faker, intents one flare; ices: to hit my face.

Sunlight, flat wall, to call to me, all rays emerging, sighting a ball, suddenly at my bed top tip, aimed hi; it's playing: enjoy a new day.

In the upper air, in a mirror, it spins, tingles a pair, turns beam this back-tip, a flip, touches heat hair, nearest, it comes fair to my neck.

A dot zooms forth, stops suddenly, tips along, atop of the shoulder, a dip down, slips, gets chips shot, both eyes; a hit: blasts blinds.

Dark, I am in found, hell-silent gloom outside of me, telling the sun up, creepy, a funny joke, echoing a good yell; a bell sounded: cheer.